Alternative Girlfriend
by Sebhar
Summary: Based on the song Alternative Girlfriend by Barenaked Ladies. An elderly woman recounts the story of her first true love to her grandson, telling how they lived when they were younger and how they met. There, I think the formatting's fixed.
1. Intro

"...so, Grandmother, I have no idea what he thinks of me, and I keep wondering if I shouldn't break it off."

Holding her barely-adult grandson to her chest, Mrs. Robertson smiled a little to herself. When Jacob pulled away from her embrace and observed the smirk, he became puzzled.

"What's funny, Grandmother?" he wanted to know.

Mrs. Robertson shook her head. "That's a story you'd soon be bored with, Jake," she told him, half-hoping he'd drop the subject. Which, of course, he refused to do.

"Come on, Grandmother! How is my being confused about Dan amusing?"

She sighed and sat down on the rocking chair behind her. "D'you have an hour or so to spare?"

Jake rolled his eyes. "Of course - I'm home for the summer. I've got however long this is going to take."

"All right, then." Mrs. Robertson leaned back in her chair, the movie of the story she was about to relate playing on the insides of her heavy eyelids, her sharp green eyes observing the memory as though it were really happening, right here, right now. Then she wet her lips... and began.


	2. Thursday, Jade

The freshly-reborn sun rose gently over the horizon, like a tangerine, casting timid beams of topaz light over the sleeping girl's pristine white bed sheets and creamy-complected face. The brightness awakened the girl, whose emerald eyes fluttered open under delicate eyebrows. Sitting up, she yawned once, stretched luxuriously, then padded barefoot to the sink. Splashing water on her face, she brushed her hair, slipped on a handmade kimono patterned with toasters, and sat on a psychedelically-painted bamboo mat. This mat and its three equally colourful comrades encircled a raised circular platform, about a foot high, upon which the girl and any company she entertained took their meals.

Upon the "table" dwelt a camp stove. Here, bread toasted, soup cooked, and tortillas warmed. Water boiled for tea, for homemade soup, for pasta. The owner of the stove needed no other fancy cooking-ware: just one worn pot, a skillet, some forks and spoons and metal plates. Water could be summoned from the tap under the windowsill on the west wall, and on the counter beside the sink rested a dorm-size refrigerator, which contained yogurt and tofu and fresh vegetables harvested from the hydroponics tanks which occupied the north wall and supplied most of the girl's food - with the obvious exceptions of store-bought tofu and her weakness, salt-and-vinegar potato chips, among others. In the cupboards over the countertop were stored the few dishes, some baking pans, a large pitcher for iced tea, a yogurt-maker, and a blender for smoothies. Other than these, the girl had no use for kitchenware, and frequently said as much.

Almost lazily, the girl grabbed the bag of hand-made bread in the centre of the table and opened it, placing two slices on the warming camp stove and rotating them once they'd reached the desired toastiness. Suddenly, in the pocket of her overcoat, her cell phone rang. She sighed. What now? It was barely noon!

Exasperated, she stood up and crossed to her coat, hanging from a brass hook on the back of the door, which served as sentry between her quarters and the rest of the house. Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew the phone, saw who was calling, and excitedly put it to her ear.

"Yeah, Sal?"

Sally's deep, smoky voice purred from the other end. "Jade, babe, what's going on?"

"Not a lot, Sal... why are you calling me at the crack of dawn?" Jade, queen of this room, wanted to know.

"You'll never guess, dollface," replied her good friend.   
Unfortunately for Sally's fun, Jade knew very well the only reason Sal would call her this many hours before evening. "The company gave you a record-release date?"

Recognising defeat, Sally gave in. "Yeah, a week from today. There's gonna be a party at this place downtown called... uh..." Sal put her hand over the mouthpiece, but badly, so Jade could still hear what was being said and knew what Sal had been up to recently. "Hey, Tyler! What's that record place called again?" A muffled reply remained inaudible to Jade, but she heard it anyway when Sal repeated, "The Wreck Chord Shop. That's wreck, like car accident, and chord, like in circles and..."

"I know of the place," Jade interrupted, "but I've never been in."

"It's lovely, all kinds of indie and punk records. Ty has a friend who works there. What's his name?" Another muffled yell. "Steven. Maybe we should hook you two up, huh?"

But Jade just laughed. "You know I don't date, Sal. Men bore me."

"Probably because you don't realise what you're missing," Sal chided. "Right, well you're coming tonight, aren't you?"

"Have I ever missed a gig?"

"Not even when you were projectile-vomiting all over your bass. Vera and Selene were planning on equipment setup around six. Be there or..." But Jade had hung up, feigning anger at the clichéd adage as she always did.

Six, she thought. Great. She had half an hour to get herself clean and dressed after work. Which reminded her. She was going to be late again. As her superiors had explained to her, if she was late one more time, she'd be out of a job. But as she had explained to her superiors, making sandwiches at the vegetarian deli was not necessarily her idea of a good time.

Quit work, make music, she thought. It sounded better every day.


	3. Thursday, Steven

Steven eyed the new wares with interest. He always liked watching the new alternative arrivals come in, the music you couldn't hear on the radio. Today, in came indie, punk, electronica, avant-garde, progressive - music one would never be exposed to if one lived somewhere further away, California or even Washington. These bands signed to local labels, rarely got airplay, toured in vans with their equipment in the trunk, lived from one record release to the next.

Steven wished he could live that way; unfortunately, to live like that was impossible for Steven.

This afternoon when he'd awakened from a full morning's sleep, his mother had spoken to him again about his "foolish dream". She had been dreadfully upset.

"Michael got into your room again!" She scolded him.

Steven shrugged. "I can't help it, Mum, Michael gets everywhere!"

Not to be calmed, Mrs. Cornwell continued ranting at her eldest son. "All he ever talks about is how he wants to run away and join a band. And it's not just him!" she yelped, shutting Steven's mouth and killing the retort he'd been planning to release on her. "It's all the twins talk about! And Perry! And Ryleigh! How they want to be just like you, to form a band and run off on tours! Sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll, that's what they want! Why, Steven? Why, when I have tried so hard, alone, to raise my children... why do you think they want to live like that?" Her face red, she glowered at him, daring him to answer pertly.

"Me," he muttered. His mother nodded satisfaction with his reply.

"You! What do you contribute to this family, Steven?"

This raised his hackles a bit. "I work, Mum. I don't spend any money on myself. As you recall, the guitar and the amp were a gift..." he rushed on before she could stop him, "From Dad."

Mrs. Cornwell hissed and slapped Steven's face. Her voice a poisonous purr, she locked her eyes on his from two inches away, their noses almost touching. "Never," she growled, "mention that sick excuse for a human being in this house again. What if your siblings heard you? What if they found out what a wastrel he was? I wouldn't like to be you if I found you responsible for such an atrocity!"

Once she'd pulled away, Steven stood up from the threadbare recliner he'd been imprisoned in. "I'm going to work," he replied to her inquiring glare.

Hair combed, sunglasses on, Steven had danced out of the house. Free at last, in the fresh air characteristic of Canadian summer, he had escaped his mother.

For the time being.

Now, here at work, he pondered his job. Work a few days a week. Come at three in the afternoon, leave at midnight after making sure whoever relieved him had shown up for work. Hang out in a record store all day, pretending to browse the records, the shirts, the magazines, the incense, all the while breathing in the heavy, almost-smoky atmosphere. Watch for shoplifters; supervise loadings and unloadings of merchandise. The good life.

Steven stood behind his friend Tyler, intrigued. "Is that hers?" he queried.

Tyler grinned and nodded. "Yeah, this is Sal's band." Sal, lead singer of the underground success band Sally and the Ragdolls, dated Tyler nonchalantly. What she didn't realise (or rather, what Steven hoped for Tyler's sake she didn't realise) was that Tyler was madly in love with her. Every time they went out - movies, concerts, dinner, just cruising - Tyler came back gushing, vowing to carry her off somewhere and marry her. And then whenever he tried to catch her backstage after one of her shows with the Ragdolls, inevitably she was with some other guy, laughing, hand-holding, apparently having the time of her life. Tyler would then come to Steven, utterly crushed.

It was Steven's considered opinion that Sal was not a bad person. In fact, he thought that if Tyler would just tell her how he felt about her, she'd quit with the other guys and focus solely on building a relationship with him. But would he tell her? No, of course not. The fact was, Tyler was simply too shy.

But Steven couldn't hold that against Tyler. Why, he himself avoided women like the plague, fearing rejection more than loneliness. And besides, what woman would possibly be attracted to a man who still lived with his mother?

It wasn't like he had a choice, though. How else would there be money to put his brothers and sisters through school? Michael, fresh from the third grade, loved to learn. Perry made the best paper airplanes in the third grade. Ryleigh, though shy, was often complimented for her intense acting skills - so poignant for a sixth grader - and her singing voice, so powerful it moved you to tears. Then the twins, Tyra and Tyren, though mischievous and fun-loving, were still extremely intelligent, and dominated the high school already, even though they were only freshmen.

Did Steven want them to be forced to forfeit their educations in favour of less-rewarding lives? Did he want to hold himself responsible for denying his flesh and blood their fulfillment, realisation of their true potential? Of course not – so he worked and penny-pinched and saved all his money, relinquishing a social life, an apartment of his own, even a car. So he had no girlfriend, no nights out. He attended no concerts, bought no records despite his love of music.

Still thinking, Steven thrust his hands into his pockets and started whistling an old Barenaked Ladies tune as he walked home early Friday morning.

Little did he know, as he passed a girl with violently orange hair on the sidewalk, that his dilemma would soon be solved, and he would be free to realise his own dreams.


End file.
